


Contra Spem Spero

by StrangeMischief



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24342472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeMischief/pseuds/StrangeMischief
Summary: It’s hard to pretend. It’s hard to pretend he’s not hanging onto every little word, remembering details that so easily slipped by before but are glaringly obvious now.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Kudos: 45





	Contra Spem Spero

**Author's Note:**

> Think I wrote this last summer? I've had it a while and it's too sappy to sit in my WIP folder anymore. As always, enjoy :3

Tony loves Stephen, and it’s hard.

It’s really hard.

It’s hard to remain blind. It’s hard to not look at the clear sky and think of his eyes. It’s hard not to stare when presented with the real thing. To force his gaze down when Stephen looks up. To conceal the stolen glances. To hide the smile, the tugs at his lips each time he catches sight of a scrunched nose, or a lopsided grin, or an arched brow.

It’s hard to look upon someone and know he could never hold him.

It’s hard to play deaf. To hear a song, Stephen loves and not think of him. To have a melody run across his skin and not imagine how much Stephen would appreciate it too. To listen to the pound of the rain against the windowpane and not picture his blissful face. It’s hard to hear baritone laughter from across the room and not instantly turn, letting loose laughter of his own.

It’s hard not to let salty tears spill over when he hears his voice.

It’s hard to be mute. To hold his tongue each time words of adoration threaten to spill from his lips. To smile, to hum, to nod absently rather than offer a proper response for fear of giving himself away. It’s hard to have said so many words, so many times in his head, but to rarely let anything fall from his mouth than a sarcastic comment.

It’s hard to keep the tremble from his voice when they’re in the same room.

It’s hard to pretend. It’s hard to pretend he’s not hanging onto every little word, remembering details that so easily slipped by before but are glaringly obvious now. It’s hard to conceal that fact that he knows raspberries, not strawberries. That he knows mint flavored floss, not cinnamon. That he knows calm droplets, not snarling thunder. It’s hard to pretend that he doesn’t spend minutes, _hours,_ mulling over off-hand comments, over absentminded wishes, over grumbled frustrations.

It’s hard to pretend he’s not hurting in his presence. In his absence. _Always_.

It’s hard to be happy. It’s hard to be happy when his happiness, or at least a part of it, is contingent on another person in ways he’d never thought possible. It’s harder, still, when it’s a person who, realistically, he knows doesn’t feel the same way.

It’s hard to sit at the Sanctum kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand, and hear how happy the sorcerer is. It’s hard to battle the conflicting mixture of joy and sorrow that arises each time he sees the elated sheen in Stephen’s brilliant eyes. Joy, because he’s happy and that makes Tony happy. Sorrow because it’s not Tony who caused it. Or, at least, not how he’d like. Sorrow because he knows that Stephen, at least to some degree, they can be happy without him – that he can be happy while Tony suffers.

It’s hard to smile back, to shrug and say he’s doing well.

It’s hard to hope. To hope for Stephen’s happiness and yet his own. To see his beaming grin and crinkled eyes and hope it’s there for him. To hear his indelicate but invigorating laughter and hope it was him that brought it forth.

It’s hard to hope for a world where they’re together.

It’s hard to realize there might not be one.

It’s hard.

It’s really hard.

It’s hard when his chest constricts against the pain. It’s hard when a tired, whispery cough is ripped from his filled lungs. It’s hard when the last petal falls. It’s hard when the last rivet of blood trails over his palm.

It’s hard…

…because even in that moment, there is still hope.


End file.
